Dorothy

Dorothy lived at the edge of a quiet little town, her tiny house a haven for all things peaceful. The porch was crowded with flowers that leaned eagerly toward the sun, as if competing for her attention. And inside, Dorothy herself was a warm whirlwind of curiosity and kindness, always eager to listen to anyone who came her way.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and spilled oranges and purples across the sky, Dorothy heard a knock at her door. She opened it to find a visitor unlike any she’d ever seen—a tall figure shrouded in a swirling gray mist, their presence both heavy and restless.

“I’ve come to leave my problems,” the figure said in a voice that was deep but uncertain, as if they weren’t sure this was the right place.

Dorothy tilted her head, her usual smile flickering with curiosity. “Well, come in, then,” she said without hesitation. She stepped aside, and the misty figure hesitated before crossing the threshold.

The figure didn’t sit, but instead loomed awkwardly near the fireplace. The mist seemed to pulse and shift, like it was alive, struggling to break free. Dorothy pulled a chair closer and sat, folding her hands in her lap. “Tell me about them,” she said gently.

The figure exhaled—though Dorothy couldn’t quite see a face, she felt the weight of their breath. “They’re… overwhelming. Too many to count. Too heavy to carry. I thought maybe, just maybe, someone like you could take them.”

Dorothy frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t take them for you, but I can hold them for a little while. Maybe together we can untangle them.”

The figure seemed to shrink slightly, as if the very offer lightened their load. “Where should I start?” they asked.

“Start with the smallest,” Dorothy said. “The tiniest thread of trouble. We’ll work our way through.”

And so, the figure began to speak, their voice trembling at first but growing steadier with every word. They told Dorothy about their smallest problem—an unkind word they had spoken in haste to someone they cared about. Dorothy nodded and reassured them that apologies, when sincere, carried the power of mending.

Then came a slightly bigger problem—a lingering guilt over something they’d neglected. Dorothy listened patiently, offering gentle suggestions and reminding them of the value of trying again.

As the night deepened, the figure’s mist began to dissipate, each problem spoken aloud peeling away a layer of their obscuring shroud. By the time the first rays of dawn broke through the window, the figure was clear to see—a tired but hopeful face, no longer hidden behind the weight of their burdens.

“You were right,” the figure said, their voice now steady and warm. “I didn’t need you to take them. I just needed to share them. Thank you, Dorothy.”

Dorothy smiled, her heart swelling with quiet satisfaction. “Any time,” she said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

And with that, the figure left Dorothy’s little house, the world outside seeming just a little brighter than before. Dorothy stood on the porch, watching them go, and whispered softly to herself, “Every problem is a story waiting to be told.”

Nicholas

Nicholas lived on the second floor of a creaky old building, tucked away in a city where the streets never seemed to sleep. His apartment was a cluttered sanctuary of books, maps, and notebooks bursting with ideas he rarely finished. Nicholas was a thinker, a solver, and, above all, a listener. People always found their way to his door when their minds felt too heavy to carry.

One dreary evening, while rain pattered against the windows, Nicholas heard a hesitant knock. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, set aside the half-drawn map of some imaginary realm, and opened the door.

There stood a young person—neither too young nor too old—dressed in a coat too thin for the weather. Their eyes were clouded, heavy with something unsaid. In their arms, they cradled an invisible weight, as if holding a box that no one else could see.

“I need help,” they said, their voice barely audible over the sound of rain.

Nicholas didn’t hesitate. “Come in,” he said, stepping aside.

The visitor shuffled in, leaving a trail of raindrops on the worn wooden floor. Nicholas gestured to the overstuffed couch by the window. “Sit. Tea?”

The visitor nodded but didn’t speak. They sat stiffly, still clutching the invisible box. Nicholas returned with two mismatched mugs of steaming tea and settled into his chair. He sipped quietly, waiting for the visitor to find their words.

After a long pause, they finally spoke. “I’m carrying… too much. It’s like I have this collection of problems, and they’re all tangled together. I can’t sort them out, and I can’t let them go.”

Nicholas nodded slowly, as though he understood the weight of every word. “Let’s start with this box you’re holding. What’s in it?”

The visitor hesitated, their grip tightening. “It’s… everything. My mistakes, my fears, my regrets. Things I said. Things I didn’t say. People I let down. Things I should’ve done but didn’t.”

Nicholas leaned forward, his eyes kind but sharp, the way someone looks when they’re piecing together a puzzle. “Do you know what happens when you keep a box like that shut for too long?”

The visitor shook their head, eyes wide.

“It grows heavier. The things inside start to press against each other, turning into something unrecognizable. The only way to make it lighter is to open it.”

“But what if opening it makes it worse?” the visitor asked, their voice cracking.

Nicholas smiled faintly. “That’s the thing about problems. They only stay scary when they’re in the dark. Bring them into the light, and they shrink—or at least stop feeling so impossible.”

The visitor hesitated again but finally placed the invisible box on the table between them. It shimmered faintly, as if real now that it had been acknowledged. Slowly, they lifted the lid, and out poured their stories—fragments of fear, regret, anger, and doubt, spilling out in no particular order.

Nicholas didn’t flinch. He listened to every word, his brow furrowing in thought but never judgment. Sometimes he’d nod; sometimes, he’d scribble a quick note in a small journal he always kept nearby. When the stories finally slowed, Nicholas spoke.

“Here’s what I think,” he began. “Some of these things? You can fix them. An apology here, a small action there. Others… you can’t change. But you don’t have to carry them alone. Let people help, the way you let me help tonight.”

The visitor blinked, their shoulders sinking with relief. The invisible box on the table had faded to almost nothing, its weight dispersed into the air between them.

“Thank you,” they whispered.

Nicholas leaned back, his tea now lukewarm but forgotten. “Anytime. My door’s always open.”

The visitor left a short while later, stepping into the rain with a lighter heart. Nicholas watched from the window, feeling a quiet satisfaction as he turned back to his desk. The map he’d been working on seemed less important now; real-world journeys, he decided, were far more meaningful.